


visible proof

by daisysusan



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Pining for the person you're married to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/pseuds/daisysusan
Summary: Letters between London and Nampara, but not of the practical variety. (Season 4.)
Relationships: Demelza Carne/Ross Poldark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	visible proof

My dearest Ross,

Nampara is not much changed since you left for London. Work at the mine continues as usual, with no issues to speak of. Zacky and Sam and the others are reliable, and report to me just as faithfully as they do to you, but that cannot come as a shock. 

With Caroline in town as well, and so many of our friends away, there are few social events, apart from those I host myself. When I write to you, I feel that there is so little to report that my letters can hardly be of much interest.

What is there of new? Sam and Drake are often here, but that is not a change, though Dwight visits even more frequently than before. I think him lonesome, or perhaps that Killewarren is too much for him without Caroline’s company. Might be he feels the loss of Sarah too keenly there. These last weeks, he stays late and is like as not to fall asleep in front of the fire.

I do not wake him, for he seems to dearly need the rest and I do not mind the company. The sound of his breath as he drowses over a glass of brandy in the evening reminds me of you, though Dwight asleep in the parlour makes a poor substitute for you warming my bed. Nonetheless, I shall content myself with his presence, since I cannot have yours.

All my love,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

I assure you, I would enjoy letters even if they were naught but a detailed recitation of the most tedious of your days. Just to have something from you, written in your hand, is a comfort.

I do not know how to begin a report on London, but I shall attempt it, as you deserve a report on my doings here. The city bustles at all hours, and the House is perhaps the most raucous place I have found in it, outstripping all the inns and taverns and gambling hells. There are always deals and schemes and plots being hatched among the members, and it is all a man can do to keep abreast of those that concern him or his constituency. 

‘Tis not that the city is too loud, but rather that it is loud and quiet in turns and at all the wrong times. The streets are full of the clamour and press of humanity at all hours, but my rooms are silent all night. I find I miss not just your conversation but the chatter of the children, and Prudie’s snores, and even the noises of the animals. 

Because of this, and because she seems to desire the companionship as well, I find myself often visiting Caroline. It is strange, in a way, to be out visiting at all hours and constantly attending parties. It is like a reminder of my life before I went to war. Before you. I cannot say I miss it.

You, however, I miss greatly.

All my love,  
Ross

\--

My dearest Ross,

It is not only in London that noise and silence seem to come at the wrong times. I catch myself waiting for the sound of your horse in the evenings, and unable to fall asleep when the bedroom is too silent.

I am not proud of it, but I have taken to spoiling the children and letting them sleep in our bed near every night. I find I cannot sleep without the sound of someone’s breathing to lull me, after so many years. ‘Tis not the same as you (for one neither of them snores) but I prefer it to an empty bed where I lie awake thinking of you and wishing I could reach out and touch you.

I hope your work in Parliament continues to be effective, but I still think every day of having you home again.

Yours always,  
Demelza

\-- 

My dearest Demelza,

I dreamt of you last night, and when I awoke I briefly imagined you were next to me. The moment after, when I remembered myself alone in my rooms in London, and you 300 miles away in Cornwall, was one of the most lonesome I can recall.

You said, many years ago, that you feared I might no longer long for you. I hope that fear is long since past, but nonetheless I wish to lay it out plainly: I long for you every day we are apart. More than longing. I yearn for you, for the warmth of your skin and the smell of your hair and the taste of your mouth. 

London, for all its diversions, deprives me of some of my favourites. There is a great deal to be said for the ability to take a pick into the mine or a plow into the field to settle my mind. However, I confess, when I return from the House frustrated, I think most of drowning it with your kisses. After, I’m certain, you would force me to discuss the issue, and I miss that as well, but it is not what I imagine as I try to will myself to sleep without your body alongside mine. 

From time to time, I think of being the kind of man who could simply abandon his work and return to you, but I am not. And I fear you’d not love such a man, so perhaps it is for the best.

All my love,  
Ross

\--

My dearest Ross,

Shall I play at being a fine society lady, and send you a lock of my hair or take to spraying my letters with perfume? The latter might be more evocative if I habitually wore the stuff, but the lock of hair is on offer.

I rather suspect it would not do much good, for still dream of you most nights, while I’m surrounded by your things, in the home that was yours long before it was mine. Often it is small things. I find myself dreaming that you sat with me after supper and and we talked of the day, or of us walking along Hendrawna Beach, your hand in mine, or a thousand other moments we’ve shared more times than I can count. Some nights, though, I dream of you taking me in your arms, kissing me and taking me to bed.

It is hard to wake alone after those dreams, or worse, to be wakened by one of the children kicking at me or Prudie banging down the door. If you were here, I could bury my face against you and resist the call of the morning for a few moments longer, and you would kiss my hair and tease as you often do. But instead I rise alone and go about the day pretending I do not yearn to feel your hands about my waist, surprising me for a kiss as I work. 

I will not ask you when you plan to return, not when the work you do in London is so vital, but when you do it will be greatly welcome.

Yours always,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

I cannot say that you know not how it pains me to think of the moments I am missing, for I am certain that you share the same pain. I am not so selfless as to not take some comfort in that. 

You guess rightly that a lock of your hair would not bring me solace. A single lock could be only a pale reminder of how it spreads across your pillow, and how the sun makes it shine like gold in the mornings when you sit astride me. I do not need such a token to remind me of you when I have so many memories of undoing your hairpins to watch it fall about your shoulders, and then sweeping it aside to kiss your neck. 

I do begin to see the appeal of a portrait, but truly, Demelza, none of the things I most wish to remember could be commemorated in such a way. Much as I love you in fine gowns, making me the envy of every man at a party, I prefer to think of you at home, with flour on your face or barefoot in the surf, or dressed in naught but one of my shirts, smiling coyly at me from our bed until I cannot resist joining you. Even if it were somehow acceptable to have such a moment committed to canvas, I should not wish to share them with anyone. 

Missing you,  
Ross 

\--

My dearest Ross,

You make me blush! I was not sure it could be done after so many years of marriage. 

‘Tis unfortunate that I cannot sleep in your shirts anymore, but with the children nearly always underfoot, and rather more attentive servants than we had when we first wed, I do not think it would be wise. As I recall it, I was barely decent in them, surely not fit to be seen by anyone but you. Perhaps when you return from London, I can resume the practice for a few nights.

Or perhaps not. As I think on it, it comes to my mind that quite a few of your shirts were torn as a result of it, at least one beyond repair. Perhaps I did not tell you at the time, unsure how you’d respond when money was so scant. Nor did I wish you to buy me a nightdress we could not afford, when I could wrap myself in your scent for the whole night instead.

Is that forward? Is it possible to be forward with one’s own husband, the father of one’s children? But ‘tis true. I miss not just your conversation, and your kisses, but also the smell of you when I press my face against your neck, and the taste of your skin after you swim in the cove. I miss the way you tangle your hands in my hair, just at the edge of hurting, and the sharpness of your voice when I’ve teased you for too long. 

I do not think I shall sleep easy after writing you of all this, not from shame but from longing.

Yours always,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

There is a spot on your neck, just below your right ear, that I particularly like to kiss. You like it too, I know, from the way you tilt your head to allow it and the way your breath catches when I heed your request. Perhaps I like it too much, since more than once you’ve chastised me for leaving a mark there. The first time I did, if I recall, was before we were wed, and you blushed furiously when you discovered it. 

I’m sure I teased, though I likely should not have, and I’m just as certain that you insistently hid it with your hair or a kerchief until it was gone. You would have been too nervous to reprimand me for it then, strange as it is to remember such a time. A Demelza who hesitated to scold me? ‘Tis hard to fathom now, but we were young and still unsure what we would mean to each other.

Now when I think about kissing you there, I think about how you’d laugh if I bit too hard, and how you’d push me away and tell me that it would not be seemly for you to go about covered in bruises like you’d gone to bed with leeches instead of your husband. It would make me laugh, for I am wholly unable to resist your smile, and I would heed your request despite how the thought of letting the whole world see how much I want you appeals. 

I would leave the marks across your thighs, perhaps, or your stomach. Your breasts, if you let me.

Yours always, and in all ways,  
Ross

\--

My dearest Ross,

Those memories are strange to me as well, both oddly clear in my mind and faded with time. I do recall that morning, the first time you left a mark on me in the shape of your mouth. Oh, if I’d known then how many more there would be, I should have laughed. But I was young, and I feared you might change your mind about marrying me. 

The only thing I was sure of then was that you wished to take me to bed. It is strange to think upon, after so many years of certainty. Oh, I have doubted many things, Ross, but it has been so long since I truly doubted your love, and even longer since I was sure I could never have it. But at the time, I truly believed that it was too much to hope that you might ever love me. I thought at best I’d be your plaything, I suppose, an object of amusement for you to take to bed and perhaps laugh with from time to time.

I do not need to say how glad I am to have been wrong, do I? For I do not know that I can express it without you in front of me. We have always had more eloquence with actions than words, and laying the words out on paper makes them feel like too much. ‘Twould be easier to say this all if I could take your hand and look into your eyes, and even more so if I could kiss you, and touch your hair and your arms and your chest. I should like to be able to feel the beat of your heart as I say these things to you.

Yours with longing,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

I think often of you smiling at me, and I hope you smile as you read my letters.

I find myself wishing to hoard your smiles, to make a catalogue of them. I could get Dwight to help, organize them in some kind of scientific system, but that would mean sharing them, and I prefer to keep as many as possible for myself.

In my last letter, I reminisced on the time before we were wed, and those are fond memories, but they are not my fondest. I cared for you then, but the way you looked at me the first time I said I loved you has nothing on the looks you give me now. You admired me then, loved me even, but I could not have imagined how much better it would be to see that admiration still on your face so many years later, when you have seen so much more of my flaws and foibles and struggles. 

You are not alone in not daring to hope that we might have this depth of love. I certainly did not imagine that anyone could see the worst of me and still want me as you do— as a husband and partner, and a lover too. 

All my love,  
Ross

\--

My dearest Ross,

It feels silly to say I loved you then, though I know I did, because since then I have learned so much more of love, and feel it so much more deeply. At best, I loved the idea of you.

Perhaps I did not know then how much more love I could feel! We were young, especially I. How could I have known that you would look at me with longing in your eyes now that you know the flaws of my body and the weaknesses of my soul? Indeed, how could I have known what it would be to love all of you, even the most infuriating parts? But I prefer what we have now, for now I no longer worry that your affection is a fragile thing, easily broken or swept away.

And lest I seem too selfish, knowing the same about you has not lessened my love. If anything, it has heightened it, to know you so well. 

Yours always,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

You call them flaws, but in truth I adore every mark on your skin. 

I think of tracing them all with my hands and my mouth, and it comforts me that I can recall them so clearly even when you are not in front of me. I should like to kiss each of them, and name the cause for each. It pains me to think on some of them, but at the same time, it pleases me that I have known you so long and so well. And to think that no one else can claim this knowledge! Even others who have seen your skin will not know the story of every scar. 

‘Tis a strange juxtaposition, is it not, that I both wish to keep all my favorite parts of you secret for myself, and show the whole world how much I love and desire and need you at all times? 

I suppose that’s the purpose a wedding ring ought to serve, to show that you have been claimed, but it seems insufficient. There are so many reasons for marrying, and too many men have been wholly undeterred by your ring for me to think it conveys the level of possession I wish it to. 

You are laughing at this, I imagine, and thinking that no person can truly belong to another. And I am imagining it, and thinking of kissing you until you are too breathless to laugh. But I hope you are pleased with it as well, smiling just a little, because there is nothing else I can say to truly express this. Demelza— you own me, beyond what I can express in words. I do not believe I could even show it with my actions or my body. It is wholly beyond me to convey, and I can only hope that it is clear to you, even if no one else recognizes it.

Yours,  
Ross

\--

Dearest Ross,

I do not wish to say that it is obvious to others how deeply we feel, for I do not think so, but I do rather think that anyone with eyes knows that you desire me. There is a look that comes over you, that makes your gaze feel heavy on my skin and makes my breath catch in my chest, and I must tell you that you have not kept that look to the privacy of our bedroom. 

This is not a complaint, for even as it makes me blush when you set your eyes on me like that in front of others, it pleases me to know that you cannot contain your desire. I miss it desperately, the way your eyes settle on me when I’ve pleased you particularly, or indeed for no reason at all that I can discern. It never fails to make me want to kiss you, but it also makes me fear that if I started I shouldn’t be able to stop, and so I must contain myself when you fix me with that look in front of company, or in the fields, or as we wander through the cove. 

Still— I think you need not concern yourself that others do not know how you wish you claim me. Or indeed how I wish you do it, for I relish those looks, and the way your teeth catch on my skin before you remember all the times I’ve scolded you.

The next time you are here, I think I shall let you do as you please, and laugh at the glances I will get afterward. ‘Twill please you, I’m sure, and I do not think I can resist giving you that joy. It has been too long since we have laughed together. 

Maybe I will do the same to you, and let my mouth linger on your neck as we join. I have not thought on it overmuch, but I think I should like it nonetheless. Your skin there is soft, and it tastes of you. I shall have to work harder than you, for you have a darker complexion, but it would not be like you to complain about having my attentions lavished on you, and as you know, when I set my mind to a task I like to see it through to completion. 

The thought of everyone who sees you knowing that I have claimed you as much as you have claimed me pleases me.

Yours,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

Now it is you who make me flush. I am certain my dreams tonight will be vivid, and entirely of you.

You have left marks on me before, my love. They are not so vivid on my skin as those I put on you, but it has always brought me a particular joy to be able to press my fingers to them later and feel the ache as a reminder of our passion. I look forward to what you will be able to accomplish to that end when you put your mind to it more deliberately.

I imagine you will tease me with it, as you like that so much. You take so much time kissing me, revisiting all the places that make me mad with desire, and then laugh at me when I can barely contain myself. Though I suppose I do the same to you, kissing the tenderest places of your skin softly and persisting when it makes you laugh. I enjoy the moment when you can no longer bear it, and you start to plead with me, or indeed just move until I can take you the way we both want. Having to lay my thoughts out in words for you has done me some benefit, though, because now when I think of this also I think of murmuring against your skin how much I love you and how I have missed you and that I do not know how to live without you anymore.

Perhaps in the moment, I will not think to say the words, but now you will have these letters to remind you the next time I get caught in one of my moods and neglect you for a time. I laugh now, remembering how I said when I asked you to stay at Nampara as my wife that I thought you were used to my moods, for I did not imagine that your love would entice me to actually try to temper them.

I hope you know now that they always pass and I always emerge from them as madly in love with you as ever, for I cannot imagine another way of being.

All my love,  
Ross

\--

My dearest Ross,

I am running out of words for these things, and I find myself stumbling my way through sentences that do not seem to convey the things I wish to express. I have attempted to write this letter three times already, and discarded them all, feeling frivolous as I throw the papers on the fire. I wish to show you the feelings you have stirred in me with my body, not commit them to paper for you to think on hundreds of miles from our bed.

While I am glad to have your letters, and I will treasure them every time you are away, they are but a pale shadow of having your arms about my waist or your hands on my skin or your warmth in my bed. 

You will not abandon your duties in Parliament, and I do not truly wish you to, but I left without any words save a plea for you to return to me as soon as you feel able.

Love,  
Demelza

\--

My dearest Demelza,

If all goes to plan, I will be home with you before you receive this. I cannot abandon the House for long, but it is not the only thing to which I am obliged. I have a duty to you as well, sworn before God as I recall, and it would not do for me to neglect that either. I have absolute faith in you to carry out all my duties in Cornwall save one in which I think— or perhaps I flatter myself— that I cannot be replaced.

Yours,  
Ross

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a somewhat oblique reference to the 2013 New York Times essay "I Know What You Think of Me," which you probably know for its closing line, "[if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known](https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/06/15/i-know-what-you-think-of-me/)."


End file.
